


Scenting

by MistressDragonFlame



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All the Dread Wolf References, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, F/M, Humor, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 16:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15147587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressDragonFlame/pseuds/MistressDragonFlame
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan is a happy Dalish Omega, and she takes enjoyment in marking her new clanmates, her trusted companions of the Inquisition. Except for The Iron Bull; she thinks he smells. He, naturally, finds out this and decides on a prank.Solas Greatly Disapproves.





	Scenting

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at an Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamic fiction, set in a light hearted, humorous setting. My A/B/O, however, is strongly influenced by the A/B/O dynamics of Patricia Brigg’s book series ‘Mercy Thompson’ (which I cannot encourage people enough to go read). It should still be recognizable to those familiar with the trope, however. 
> 
> This is an ambiguous-class Lavellan.

Lavellan enjoyed scent, it was part of who she was. She enjoyed the way grass smells in the early spring, the ever crisp scent of snow as it blows into her window from the Frostbacks, and the smell of a hearthfire mixed with that of a cup of hot cocoa to name a few smells in particular. She also enjoyed the unique smells of her companions… mostly.

She was lucky, she supposed, to be an Omega in her position of Inquisitor. Alphas were driven by their nature to protect their clan, true, but had she been an Alpha, unless she was the _most_ dominant, her desire to mark would have caused issue with the other Alphas she worked with, even if they never acted upon such instincts. She saw it once or twice in groups of hunters, where a newly joined clanmate was more dominant than the leader of the expedition; it usually ended in the younger either leaving for another group, or taking over the group to its detriment. Neither could occur here in the much more complex, human organization.

And being a Beta… she couldn’t imagine a Beta as Inquisitor. It was never a good dynamic when a Beta ruled over Alpha, it just caused undue stress for all involved. A Beta would also never think to mark an Alpha on their own, unless it was a mating mark—and she _certainly_ wasn’t going to do that to _every_ Alpha in her group (maybe just the one, if she could trap him against a tree sometime).

An Omega, however, existed without most of the usual trappings of either Alpha or Beta. Her very presence soothed tempers between rival Alpha, and brought confidence from Beta. She could easily rule over Alpha, without causing challenge to their instinct, and Beta trusted what orders she placed fourth without their need to be subservient to her. There was also the joy she caused when she marked her closest companions.

While the humans didn’t treat their Omega in the same way as the Dalish—preferring to keep the rarer Omega away from dangerous positions all together—they still reacted to her markings the same way a Dalish would. Betas would blush, Alphas would preen, and fellow Omegas would return in kind. It bound them together as a more intricate group than simply ‘the Inquisition,’ which rapidly grew every day.

So she would constantly touch, brush against, and otherwise mark her companions, and it very happily caused them to work that much better as a group, each happy to belong in their own way; Alpha to protect her, Beta to support her, and Omega because it was family. It was odd at the beginning, where they were mostly strangers and she wasn’t officially appointed their leader, but since coming to Skyhold, it was a fixture that her companions would carry her scent, and she would in turn carry some of theirs.

She did believe that humans, who made up the majority of her inner circle, didn’t have as strong olfactory senses as elves did. Marking was just less common among them, she noticed, and they didn’t react the same way to a strange scent as an elf would. During their journeys, she and Solas would frequently pause and take a deep breath of their surroundings, and even untrained Sera would comment on an odd scent that passed her way. Cassandra and Blackwall would do it only when setting a camp perimeter, and they were the more nose-wise of their kind. Dwarves, as far as she knew, were almost completely nose-blind, which made sense because they all smelled exactly the same to her. Qunari seemed to have fairly sensitive noses, maybe even more so than elves did. However, they—she only knew one Qunari, so she was making a generalization—also seemed to appreciate vastly… ‘different’ scents.

If there was a dead animal they stumbled across in the wilderness, The Iron Bull would go inspect it, always taking a big whiff and happily describe what information he could determine from that. When they had fought and killed that dragon, Bull didn’t stop until he had hacked into the beast’s belly and covered himself head to toe in blood and bits of viscera, and refused to bathe until it was _completely_ dried to him. When he did bathe, whether out in the field or back at Skyhold, he would apply this strange oily cream after to his chest, which scent would just _linger_ . It wasn’t... _terrible_ , she supposed, but it was not something she wanted constantly following her around (or smell ever again if she had a choice). It may be personal preference, since Sera seemed to enjoy it, whatever the substance was. The humans and solitary dwarf of the group didn’t seem put off by the scent of the Qunari, though Solas made effort to be always decisively out of reach from The Iron Bull the few times they were out on missions together. Then again, both of them being Alphas had probably more to do with that.

But still, that wasn’t the point. The point was The Iron Bull _smelled_ , and she did not like it. Because of that preference, she didn’t mark the Alpha much at all, as she was loath to get the smell on herself. She still liked the Qunari, and still felt compelled to add him into her self-appointed clan, but she limited how she did it. She’d discreetly rub her hands against her chin or jawline, then touch his forearm, horns, or shoulder blade—adding more of her scent to the glands on her hands while neatly avoiding his own scent glands. She took his back-pats with a resignation more reserved to walking to the gallows, and would change her shirt if given the opportunity, or rub under her nose with a scented kerchief to help mask it if not.

She thought she had been subtle enough in her distaste. It wasn’t something either one of them could really change immediately; it would only take time to get used to. She understood, however, that the Alpha’s pride would be hurt to have an Omega react so negatively to his scent, and so she kept it hidden as much as she could.

However, he was Ben-Hassrath for a reason, and had noticed. Probably from the beginning.

“Please, don’t do this!” She begged to the human Alpha next to her.

“Sorry, Your Worship, orders from the top!” Krem laughed as he held onto one arm, locked in a particular grip that she didn’t have the leverage to break. It wasn’t painful, but it was solid.

“ _Lethallan,_ ” She instead turned to Dalish, who held her other arm in a mirror of Krem. She and her had already discussed the... _different_ smell of the Qunari. Dalish had previously admitted to struggling to accept the scent after she had joined the group. “You understand, the-the _smell_ ; please, let me go!”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it, real quick,” the elf Beta grinned, her vallaslin crinkling as she winked. “Just let it _soak in_.”

Now that she had the thought, the woman was probably the snitch that told Bull of her scent aversion. “ _Harellan!_ ” She hissed, betrayed. A cackle was her only response.

She, and likely everyone in the tavern—made up of almost exclusively Chargers—felt it when The Iron Bull walked in. It was a presence that only the most dominant Alphas emanated; it brought comfort to Betas and peace to Omegas. Lesser Alphas relented without even a raised eyebrow in challenge, and were assured they would be protected in turn. Most often, Bull shuttered his presence in Skyhold, to prevent conflicts with those Alphas dominant enough to raise challenge to him. It was common courtesy for Alphas, of almost any dominance, to do so while in large groups. Usually, when his dominance was released in battle, it caused a semi-pleasant shiver to dance down her spine, a reminder that the powerful Alpha was on _her_ side.

It brought a tight ball of dread into her stomach to feel it now, because it spoke of her doom.

The Iron Bull, as well as the majority of the Chargers, had been busy helping rebuild the fortress called Skyhold. There had been debris all over when they arrived, and the first week had _everyone_ hauling supplies to and from the fortress. There were still debris to be moved, weeks later, and Iron Bull took pleasure in lifting the heaviest things he could. Which meant he sweat a lot throughout the day.

And was currently very, very smelly.

“Well, well,” Iron Bull stopped before her, standing tall and proud. He was huge; his horns nearly brushed the floor above, and his shoulders were almost as broad as the fireplace behind him. He had dirt streaks and sweat marks all down his shirtless chest, also glistening from that horrible cream he used. She felt like she was smacked face first with his musk, it was so strong. He probably skipped bathing for at least a day, in preparation for her torture. Perhaps even _three_ days, he was certainly filthy enough. “What have we here?”

“Bull, please,” she began, before Krem talked over her.

“New initiate, Chief!” He chirped, laughter still coloring his voice. “Ready for accepting of the Bull Brand!”

Oh, _of course_ they call Iron Bull’s markings ‘the Bull Brand.’ Where was Cassandra when you needed a really good ‘Ugh’? In fact, where _was_ Cassandra? She could really use her help right now.

“Bull, don’t do this! Release me!” She struggled in the chair, but got no purchase. Rocky, at her feet, held tighter to her clenched legs, while simultaneously drinking from his mug of ale. Damned stocky dwarves, it was like trying to kick a boulder.

The Iron Bull grinned, his entire face lighting up with humor and just a hint of malicious intent. “Initiate! You sure you want to join the Chargers? Gain your Horns and Brand?”

“No! _Fenendhis_ , Bull! I _order_ you to let me go, as your Inquisitor!”

“Eh, dock it from my pay, Boss,” He chuckled before those big meaty hands reached out and gripped her face firmly enough to cause her cheeks to squish uncomfortably.

He continued to laugh as her voice when from angry orders to wordless shrieks of pure rage. He bent with surprising dexterity considering his size and cumbersome horns, and very firmly marked his chin against her neck. He continued on the other side, marking her from the top of her shoulder to the bottom of her jaw in a long, firm rub of his scent glands. He shifted his hands to under her jaw, and then firmly rubbed his cheeks against hers, on both sides. To add insult to the injury, he then easily lifted her up from the chair—his minions releasing her as he did—and squished her firmly to his dirty, sweaty, oily, _smelly_ chest, her feet kicking uselessly a solid foot off the ground.

“I _will_ pluck out your remaining eye if you DON’T LET ME DOWN RIGHT N— _OOF!_ ” Abruptly, she was dropped back into the chair.

“Now, now, no need to get grumpy.” The Iron Bull said, completely unabashed. He rubbed his big hands up and down her arms as he spoke, further marking her, “We’re all friends here. You’re one of us now, yeah?”

She wasn’t proud of it, but she bit him when a hand got too close, rubbing a thumb against her cheek. In (likely) more surprise than pain, he pulled back with a grunt, and she used the opportunity to nimbly escape. She paused at the door, turning the evil eye over to the group of traitors all laughing and slapping each other in their glee. “Dread Wolf catch your scent, Iron Bull!” She spat, before fleeing the tavern in its entirety.

Oh, Creators, it was _everywhere_. She pulled at the front of her blouse, and sneered at the new smear of dirt and sweat gathered there, and the obvious oil darkening the fabric. Did the cream stain? It probably did. It wasn’t like Bull had a shirt to worry about. She’d have to burn it, only way to be sure. Her neck and face itched from the scratch of his half-growth beard, and her skin seemed to crawl from the mark he left there, though that was probably more in her head. Ugh, it was _all_ she could smell right now, thickly coating the back of her throat from the strength, her eyes watering.

With less anger and more irritation, she made her way to the main hall, to begin the long trek up to what had become her quarters upon assuming the title of Inquisitor. Indignity aside, Iron Bull’s prank was harmless, and she was expecting something of the sort from the man (just not so soon, otherwise she’d have been prepared with more disposable clothes). It was typical Alpha behavior, and she well versed enough to accept it for the singular occurrence it would be; she was one of two Omegas in clan Lavellan, which had a unusual catch of Alphas for its size. His dominance was assuaged, having marked her as part of his troop, while she still maintained her position of power as his superior. And, she begrudgingly admitted, being marked _was_ the quickest way to get use to the smell, as Dalish had said. The Iron Bull was a companion, part of her inner circle, and she couldn’t continue to exclude him as she had been by refusing to mark him as she did the others. It was rude.

Still, doesn’t mean she was happy having been _coated_ in the Qunari’s smell and accumulated filth; she had to breathe mostly through her mouth as it was.

Varric looked up as she passed, and opened his mouth in apparent greeting before he paused. Sniffed. Then started laughing. She snarled, walking faster—if nose-blind dwarves could smell her from three feet out, she had to change and bathe _immediately_.

She started stripping off her jerkin—and pants, couldn’t be too careful—almost as soon as she closed the door to her quarters. She tossed them into the cheerfully burning fireplace, along with her breast band, and opened all the doors to the room to help air out from the smoke that was sure to come. She took a washcloth, wet it from the bowl placed there that morning, and wiped down as much as she could, before she tossed that too into the fireplace.

Pulling on a bathing robe, she gathered a fresh set of clothes (an exquisite luxury to have more than two sets of clothing) and went to grab her wash basket, set aside just for the purpose of bathing—another luxury she greatly approved of. She grew up very simply in her clan, and took advantage now she had the opportunity. She made certain that the powerful human favored soaps were included in her basket, a first since she usually stuck to the simple, mild elvish soaps she had begged from the serving staff under Josephine’s nose.

The bathing hall was mostly empty, surprisingly, so she was able to get a basin to herself and she quickly set about vigorously cleansing the musk off. One of the first things fixed in Skyhold, the bathing area was large room filled with a series of basins set in two rows, which was fed by the waterfall, heated by some fire runes, and continually filtered out for blessedly constant clean water.  She first used the human soap most suited, scrubbed with a wash cloth until her neck was pink, and then did it again with her preferred soap and a new cloth (letting the other casually float downstream). Though Bull had not scented her hair, she washed that too, for contamination purposes. She knew she was probably being a bit dramatic, but ick, she could _taste_ it. The musk would probably haunt her very _dreams_.

She eventually crawled out of the water—wrinkled and pink like an old nug—and dried off as best she could before she pulled on her fresh clothes. She sniffed at her arms, and her shoulder, but couldn’t smell anything other than her soap and water, though the scent was far more muted than she’d like. Iron Bull’s musk must have burned out her nose. Ugh, everything about that man was a weapon.

She went into the antechamber, settling on a bench and taking her hair oils and brush from her basket. She usually brushed it out, oiled it, and then twisted it into a braid to keep it from being too tangled when it dried.

“Inquisitor,” a voice greeted her awkwardly.

She looked up from her hair brushing, and smiled at her Beta Commander as he shuffled into the room. He wasn’t the only one, as more and more people came in for their evening cleanse, but the others just nodded at their leader and continued on.

“Cullen, good evening,” She greeted. He always blushed when they met anywhere other than the war room or his office, and she found it so endearing. He was a rare case, an Alpha made into a Beta from tragic events, and so retained behaviors of both. He could lead armies with assuredness and purpose, yet was bashful and shy in nearly everything else.

“Has your day been fruitful?”

“Mostly. Josephine has begun to teach me the Game before I have to dance with the Wolf.”

“Dance with the what?”

“Oh, it’s a Dalish saying; means basically to intentionally tread in dangerous areas, to seek out dangerous things.”

“Ah, I see, apt description of the Winter Palace. I do not envy you, Inquisitor. Have you had a chance to get to my report on our troops?”

She froze, a bashful smile slowly creeping onto her face as she tried to look innocent. Cullen huffed, amused despite himself, “I’ll take that as a no.”

She laughed, and reached out with a hand to absently pet down his arm, “Sorry, I forgot about it. I’ll have it on your desk in the morning, first thing.”

Predictably, he reddened as she marked his arm. He acquiesced to her timeline and quickly excused himself, and departing for the bathing rooms at not quite a scuttle. She gave an amused smile as she watched him escape; he really was adorable, though she preferred Alphas. And, as he hadn’t mention Iron Bull’s mark at all (he retained the somewhat annoying Alpha trait of scenting people), she assumed she got most of it off and so she left the bath area in a better mood than entering.

It wasn’t as if she had never been marked by an Alpha before. Cassandra had done a perfunctory marking as soon as they had met, as prisoner and jailer, as brisk as the rest of her demeanor had been. Her Keeper also routinely marked all those of the clan, as all Keepers did, and she herself was not excluded from that. There had even been an unpleasant marking when she was twelve, from a stinky little boy three years her junior before he had been put a stop to by the clan elders and made to apologize. Still, Iron Bull’s mark was as robust as the man himself, and she was glad it was mostly, if not completely, gone.

It had been late afternoon when she was accosted in the tavern, and it was true evening now. Her stomach rumbled, which reminded her that the reason she had been in the tavern at all had been to get some supper. She huffed, that plan now nixed; she wasn’t going back _there_ anytime soon.

Instead she went back into the main hall, and down to where the kitchens were. Most were required to either pay for food at the tavern, or eat the food left out in the hall by the staff at designated hours, regardless of how fresh it was when they got to it. But she was the Inquisitor; she could get hot food when she wanted it! ...As long as the grouchy cook wasn’t there, she didn’t answer to anyone, even the Inquisitor.

Thankfully the cook wasn’t in attendance, and she was able to snag a few of still fresh, if not warm bread rolls, some of the heavily smoked leftover meat usually reserved for morning breakfast, and some roasted carrots that still steamed. She made sure she grabbed more than she would eat personally, as she planned on bringing some to Solas. Knowing him, he had eaten an apple or two and called it even. That man, did he think to survive off the Fade itself?

He usually researched in the morning and early afternoon, and started his painting as evening came around. He said it was so that the ruckus of the library and spy-network—both surprisingly noisy—wouldn’t interrupt his concentration, and also so the paint would get a chance to set while there were less chances of people accidentally brushing against it.

Sera had touched the wet paint. Once. She never found out what happened exactly, but the city elf hadn’t been in the rotunda since, saying she’d rather go into a wolf den while naked. The most she had found out was that Sera had had dark rings under her eyes for a week, and she had been heard muttering about ‘too many friggin’ eyes.’ Perhaps something involving a spider?

“I’ve brought real food,” She called as the rotunda door closed behind her. Solas was seated cross legged on the floor across the way, detailing a mountain range. She didn’t know exactly what he planned, but the dark looming figure currently sketched out in coal above it gave hint that it was probably a rendition of Corypheus. Or her, but she didn’t think she was that intimidating.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted from his position. He remained focused as he filled in the black of the mountains.

She smiled as she approached, always happy to see him, and lightly brushed a hand across his shoulders as she moved by him to set the tray on the cloth protected table nearby. “Come on, I know you probably didn’t eat much for dinner.”

They had an awkward period after the dream where she kissed him and after where he had asked for time to consider—as if it hadn’t been _him_ to bring in Fade Tongue. She hadn’t brought up the conversation in the weeks since, allowing him his time, but that didn’t mean she stopped all contact. She still marked him, and continued to bring him food when she felt he hadn’t eaten enough. Food was important—she had spent too many winters hungry to ever not appreciate a full meal.

“There are bread rolls, mystery meat, and roasted carrots I think they put some sort of honey glaze on,” she told him as she began shuffling the plates around, evenly distributing the food between them. She finished his plate and turned to take it to him, “I—eek!” She jumped, having not expected, nor heard, Solas approach behind her. The plate slipped from her grasp, thankfully falling only the inch back onto the table.

He had the queerest look on his face. And was the closest he had ever come into her personal space on his own. “Solas?”

“Hm,” was all he said as he took another step towards her. Startled, she took a step back, her back bumping into the wall behind her. Undeterred, he followed, his head tilted as if she was a puzzle he was trying to work out.

“Um,” she started, before he did something almost completely unexpected and stilled the words on her tongue. Solas bent closer, closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. He was… he was _scenting_ her?

Solas was one of the more tricky Alphas she had ever come across. He was ambiguously dominant, as he didn’t choose to assert himself over the other Alphas in her inner circle, but similarly didn’t allow them to assert over him, and always kept himself tightly shuttered. He most often conceded the standard competitions that all other Alphas engaged in, participating rarely and when he did, it never seemed as if he cared about the outcome. Instead of preening as she marked him, as did every other Alpha—including tetchy Cassandra—he would only smile indulgently, as if it was a privilege to be _allowed_ to mark him instead of _being_ marked by her. He also, notably, did not mark anyone himself.

Alphas, she knew, were instinctually driven to mark, to claim possession of their companions, in contrast to Omegas, who were driven to mark to claim bonds with their companions. Beta rarely marked, but when they did, it was often subservient marking, a reciprocation to one they had received, a plea rather than a claim. She had yet to see Solas reach out even with his hand to mark anyone, including Dorian, a fellow Omega (a particular draw, for Alphas), or the basically-a-Beta Varric, who she knew Solas appreciated most. All touch he did was perfunctory, done to accomplish a task and nothing else, and often he wore gloves to prevent his glands from inadvertent marks. She supposed it had been due to spending most of his life wandering the wilderness by himself; the social construct of the Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamic was largely shaped by exposure to others, and instinct could be worn away by disuse. She would have thought him completely free of the typical Alpha urge to mark, if it hadn’t been for less than a handful of occasions where he would—lightly—mark her hair with his jaw as she hugged him. He hadn’t, to her disappointment, done so since their kiss.

Now, he was very obviously _scenting_ her. It was an almost strictly Alpha thing to do, to try and identify who she had claimed and was in turn claimed by.  

His eyes were closed, his mouth partially opened to improve his scenting as he leaned down. His face trailed closer and closer as he breathed in, first stopping at her temple before releasing his breath in a rush. He then flowed down as he continued with his pursuit, his hands caging her delicately against the wall as he drew nearer yet, until his nose was brushing against the very end of her neck, where it met her shoulder.

And then he _growled_.

She jumped again, an involuntary jerk of her shoulder, her heart stuttering as a very instinctual (and not at all _fearful_ ) reaction to the growl kicked in. She couldn’t help it if she tilted her head back against the wall, baring her neck for his further perusal with a light gasp. She also couldn’t stop her hands from reaching out the short—so short—distance to grasp him by his sheep’s wool tunic.

Through lidded eyes, she watched as his face twisted as he caught whatever scent he was looking for. Teeth bared in an open mouth snarl, he moved to the other side of her neck, continuing his scenting there. This one was more hurried, angry, his nose running along from under her jaw all the way down. He growled into her neck again, and she couldn’t help it—she gave a tiny squeak, clenched her hands in his sweater, and gave another jerk in reaction.

His hands dropped down from the wall to clasp at her shoulders as he brought his face back up her throat. Her eyes clenched shut as all of her focus dialed down to the feel of his hands, the light brush of his chest against hers, and to the heat of his breath on her cheek as he continued to scent her there.

“ _The Iron Bull._ ” It took her a couple (increased) heartbeats to comprehend that he had spoken at all, her thinking was so scattered.

Well, hummed a small part of her that wasn’t currently turning to Omega jelly, she supposed she still had some of Bull’s scent on her.

“ _Hunvhen’ungya deravallasem emma’ahn?_ ” He snarled, low in his throat, and she was in no state to translate even a _little_ bit of that. She tried to focus. It wasn’t working very well.

“S-Solas,” She stuttered; when did her breath become so shaky? “Iron Bull, he… it was a prank—”

The rest was lost in a gasp as he, once again, stole her words by shock. Very deliberately, very firmly, he stroked his cheek against hers in a solid mark. It was a world of difference from when Bull had done it not two hours past; smooth, hairless, completely unexpected, and altogether so much more pleasant.

Solas didn’t hesitate at all as he continued to the other side, marking her second cheek just as firmly. He didn’t stop then, either, as he dropped his face back into her neck to mark her with his chin, first on one side then the other. He then went even further than Iron Bull had, marking the crown of her head with a full cheek to chin to cheek rub. He pulled back just enough to trail his hands down her arms, a firm marking touch, and then gripped her wrists. Her eyes peeked opened to watch, fascinated. He brought her wrists up and rubbed them against his jaw glands, and all the while a low rumble echoed from his chest.

Where Iron Bull had marked her in mostly jest—ensuring he was particularly smelly, getting his minions to assist, playing like she was a supplicant and ignoring her struggles, laughing and teasing all the while—Solas was serious. No jokes. No posturing to witnesses. No outside stimulus other than apparently taking offense at the other Alpha’s mark on her. Just pure focus and intent.

He was _claiming_ her.

And, _by the Dread Wolf,_ did he smell amazing. If he wanted to take her right then, she would let him and not have a single regret.

Unfortunately, Solas seemed to come back to himself and realize what he was doing as he was brushing his lips across her wrist after his mark. He just suddenly went very still, the only sound in the room was her panting. Then he took a sharp, deep breath, dropped her wrists as if they burned him and stepped back, his eyes flying open for the first time since it began. She suddenly felt too cold, and an involuntary whine escaped her from the loss of him.

Their eyes caught on one another’s, shocked and surprised and stunned, and she _couldn’t_ just let it be. It’d be a crime.

“Oh, no, come back and keep going,” She grinned idly, a gooey ball of happy Omega contentment as she let the wall hold her up. She liked him, she really did (not just for the fact he was a tasty Alpha) and being so thoroughly marked by someone she liked spoke to her very soul. She wanted him to do it again. Every day. Forever. Until the veil came down. Or until Corypheus killed them all, whichever came first.

Solas blushed—actually _blushed_ —and took another step away before he turned away. “ _I-Ir abelas,_ ” he coughed, before he _scurried_ over to his desk. He seemed to realize part of the way there that he _had_ been working on the wall, with most of his paint supplies still scattered on the floor there. His steps stuttered a moment before continuing to the desk (it was farther away and allowed him to keep his back to her). He shuffled supplies uselessly, not facing her, and she did nothing but catch her breath and grin as she watched the nervous display.

Oh, Mother Omega Mythal, watching this was almost as good as the marking itself.

He stiffened as she circled around him, lazily rubbing against his back as she set his food plate on the table before him. “Don’t think that display got you out of eating,” she said smugly, firmly marking where she could easily reach on his arm (he was almost absurdly tall for an Elf). It felt like she was rubbing her face on iron wrapped in cloth, he was holding himself so rigidly. 

“I—I didn’t—that was—” He was stuttering like a Beta receiving their first kiss; it was _adorable_.

“Hm, I know you still are coming to a decision, and I am still _gracious_ enough to allow you that time,” She laughed as she left the statue that use to be Solas at the desk, making her way back to the plate of food she had made for herself. “I won’t press for anything now.”

Solas sighed, and slumped in obvious relief as she left his space. A hand braced his torso over his desk, his other coming up to rub at his face. Was his hand… shaking? Oh, this was too good. She had never seen him so rattled, not even after their kiss. She took satisfaction in this, in shaking the usually immovable Elf, even if it had been through no intention on her part. Alphas needed a good shake up now and then, it keeps them from being too prideful and certain of their own counsel of what is right.

Taking pity on him (but not much), she snagged her food and went to the far couch, allowing him his space. She settled down and began to tear the mystery meat into smaller chunks—a nibble proved it to be ham, for all that it was smoked within an inch of its life—and let him gather his scattered wits in silence. She was finished with her roll, and a portion of her carrots before he stood tall once more.

“Ah-ah,” She called, halting him before he left the table. His blush was long since gone, face stoic, and he was able to match her stare as only an Alpha could. “Your food?”

He frowned—just the barest twitch of his full lips—but he grabbed the plate before he departed the table anyway.

She grinned at his back, watching contentedly as he idly plucked up pieces of food as he resumed painting. She would not press him for his answer, as she had stated. She brought her wrist up to her nose, and breathed, not even remotely trying to hide the act. She already knew what his answer would be.

Well, it seems she had to thank Iron Bull for being smelly. Ugh, the man would never let her live it down. Perhaps she could keep it from him?

**XXXXX**

Special thanks to Project Elvhan, FenxShiral for the language.

“Dance with the (Dread) Wolf” is a made up Dalish saying. I felt it was a good metaphor that Dalish would utilize instead of “courting danger.”

 _Lethallan_ : blood-kin, female.  
_Harrellan_ : traitor to one’s People, betrayer.  
_Fenendhis_ : wolf-dick, basically the equivalent of ‘fuck’ or ‘dammit.’  
_Hunvhen’ungya deravallasem emma’ahn:_ The Qunari dared to touch-mark what is mine?  
        Hunvhen - Qunari, Ungya - dare, past tense, Dera - touch, vallasem - written, emma - mine, Ahn - what. Grammar/sentence structure is mine.  
_Ir Abelas_ : I’m sorry, formal. 

There are 14 meta references to Solas being the Dread Wolf in this oneshot, and I enjoyed _each one_ **immensely.**


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